


Of Silence and Silver Linings

by Anthrobrat



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Canon Era, Episode: s01e07 The Breaking Point, First Kiss, Foxholes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, There is background canonical character death, because it's the breaking point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:42:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25292614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anthrobrat/pseuds/Anthrobrat
Summary: A strange and rare little pairing of George Luz and Gene Roe based around how much it must suck to carry so much weight, both figuratively and literally.The title comes from listening to In The Silence by JP Cooper
Relationships: Eugene Roe/George Luz
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	Of Silence and Silver Linings

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a post on tumblr, and I apologize that I can't remember who posted it, but it lamented rarepair OTP's because you always have to write your own shit. So I wrote this for anyone who loves luzroe because there just isn't a lot of it out there. 
> 
> Also, I apologize in advance if this is absolute garbage. 
> 
> (These characters are representations of the fictional HBO characters; I have the utmost respect for the real gentlemen of Easy Co and the 101st.)

George Luz is loud. Some might even say he’s obnoxious. He sticks out like a sore thumb in the silence and the snow of Bastogne, but they keep him around because, as Lipton says, it’s “good for morale.” He carries a radio that’s twice his size, but isn’t the one who gives orders through it. That’s a lieutenant’s job, and probably not the kind of responsibility he’s cut out for. 

Gene Roe is quiet. His mother might call him _unassuming_ , but his grand-mere prefers _pensive_. Here, in the midst of battle, his quiet, assured manner seems to calm the men he works constantly to save. It also allows him to move about relatively undetected when he must. He could’ve been a spy; instead, he wears a white armband with a red cross and carries the weight of those he can't save. 

It doesn’t make sense, how the two of them are so drawn to each other. They are, quite literally, polar opposites. Their togetherness that had stemmed from a necessity and developed into almost a joke had been happening since those first foxholes outside Carentan. 

_ Sitting in foxholes after marching for what felt like days had already started to wear on George. It just figured that the smallest men were tasked with carrying the biggest load. Something about weight management in the airplane? Didn’t matter, it was still terrible.  _

_ During a quiet moment that night, while the Germans belted out love songs and war songs and all other manner of things to keep the American troops awake, Doc found him in his foxhole. When he came around to check on the boys, George had had a litany of physical ailments none of which were something that could be smothered in sulfa and patched. Although morphine might have helped.  _

_ Instead, Doc instructed George to turn and face the dirt wall, and the moment he placed blood-soaked hands roughly but lovingly on George’s aching shoulders their whole demeanor changed. One shouldn’t let his guard down like this on the front line, Luz thought, but as Roe dug into one of the knots on his shoulder blade, George had to stifle a moan.  _

_ “Why’re you doing this, Doc?” _

_ “Preventative care, Luz. Can’t have our radioman keeling over. We need you healthy.” _

_ “Thanks Doc” _

_ It continued like that all the way through France and Holland and into Belgium. Any time Luz winced in pain when he picked up his radio, Gene would come around and dig the knots out with his hands, letting his quiet wash over Luz like warm bathwater.  _

Tonight, Gene moves quietly between foxholes to check on his men, even though there is a particular one that marks the end of his journey. George Luz is in a foxhole he used to share with two others. Luz, Penk, and Muck’s foxhole was always filled with laughter and noise. Tonight it is eerily silent. When he half-crawls-have-falls into the grave-sized hole in the ground, he finds George Luz staring at nothing. 

“Hey Luz, everything ok?” He still half expects a funny impression to greet his question, but instead it is met with a stony, sad silence. 

When Luz replies, after swallowing twice, it sounds gritty and forced. “Yea, I’m ok. Have you heard about Toye or Guarno? Is there any word?”

“No, all I know is they made it to the aid station and are being moved out as soon as they can. They’re gonna make it. Suppose that’s what matters.”

“Yea, Doc. That’s what matters. Glad they’re ok.” Luz says with another long suffering sigh. This whole situation is clearly weighing on him. It’s getting to everyone. Too much cold. Too much death. Too much not knowing who’ll be next in the coming days. 

Gene has little else to do at this point, but he leans over and touches his helmet to Luz’s anyway. He’s so goddamn tired, and this shit never seems to stop for long enough to catch his breath. He misses Luz’s easy laughter, but he’ll take the sound of his breathing if that’s what’s being offered. 

“Luz, how’re your shoulders? They still hurting?”

George still can’t quite figure out why the doc is so obsessed with the aches and pains that come from carrying a gazillion extra pounds on his shoulders, but he doesn’t have the heart to ask because those moments when Doc lays his hands on Luz are some of his best in this war. 

“They’re ok, Doc, I haven’t had much reason to carry that radio lately. I’m alright”

Gene hears the words that Luz is saying, but can’t reconcile his words with the way he looks, which is miserable. All things considered, Gene understands, but he wishes there were more he could do for this man who he thanks the stars is still alive, especially after that close call with Lipton. He aches for a glimpse of the lighter-hearted man whose laughter and warmth were contagious. 

“Luz, I know you’re in pain. I can help if you just turn around a little.”

“S'not the kind of pain your hands can fix, Doc.”

“I know, George. But can I try?”

George gives in, because the man is probably right. He’s right about a lot of things, even though he’d never come out and say it. Suddenly George feels hands on his shoulders, and then a warm breath at his neck. It feels as though Doc has taken off his own helmet and is leaning his head against the bottom of George’s, nose just barely touching his hairline. 

Previously this had not been part of their ritual, and Luz was okay with that, but now he’s not sure if he shouldn’t have tried to get closer sooner. Sitting with his legs tucked up, with Doc’s knees on either side of his hips, while the man does wonderful things to him is not how he had pictured his last night before attacking Foy. Alas, this is where he finds himself. 

It helps, a little, with the heaviness of everything that’s happened the last few days and weeks. Doc doesn’t go any further, just slides his nose along George’s neck as he squeezes his shoulders. George realizes that this is not the best time to have these urges - there is no privacy in a 6 foot deep hole in the ground, and there is a rock digging into his hip - but this stolen moment feels like everything.

George places his hands on top of Doc’s, and he’s not sure himself whether he’s asking the man to stop or urging him to continue. The response he receives is a slide of arms around him. What little warmth is left within Doc spreads through George’s back and arms, making him feel an odd sense of safety and home, even if that seems absurd in this frozen hellscape.

George breaks the silence between them with a wisecrack about friction and warmth that doesn’t even really register in his own brain, and is met with characteristic silence. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to open his mouth, but he does and he shouldn’t regret it. Luckily, his stony company leaves those arms around him, even if they aren’t as tight as they once were.

George can’t take it anymore, so he turns in the embrace far enough to be able to gaze upon Doc’s face. His expression is unreadable, but he still hasn’t really let go, so George supposes that means something. “Seriously, Doc, what are you doing?”

The medic merely shrugs and continues to stare at George’s face, so he does the only thing he can think of when the option of talking is clearly not on the table. He leans forward and kisses Doc Roe square on the mouth. He assumes this will succeed in dislodging him from the hug, because they are both men, and soldiers to boot, and they’re in a tiny foxhole on the fucking front line outside Bastogne and obviously this is neither the time nor the place to be playing fast and loose with these sorts of declarations.

George may have miscalculated those odds, though. Honestly, if Buck were here, and wagering on the outcome of this stunt, “Doc Roe kissing him back” would have had 100:1 odds. And Malarkey, the asshole, would have taken home a lot of winnings because he always bets on the underdog. Because here lies George, wrapped in Doc’s arms, and their mouths are fused together. And it’s fucking wonderful. 

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so this is also me, as a fairly new fiction writer, attempting to toggle between points of view. Feel free to leave comments to let me know whether it worked, or if something didn't. As always, thanks for reading!


End file.
